Do You Believe In?
by Damagoed
Summary: Some seasonal one shots. Sherlock, John, Mycroft and friends.
1. Christmas Morning: Mycroft's House

Anyone looking through the windows of the large Kensington townhouse would probably have first noticed the decorations. There were a lot of them. But rather than the usual overload of lights and tinsel and flashing reindeer, these were somewhat more tasteful. The kind of thing one might find in a Christmas Catalogue from one of the better department stores. A seven foot tall tree decorated with elegant glass spirals and delicate silver snowflakes and subtle tartan bows adding colour here and there. There were candles lit everywhere, their flickering dances glinting off of glass and polished surfaces and reflecting in the windows, drawing the eye of anyone passing. There was a fire roaring in the grate, a stained glass screen in front of it protecting the rug from the pops and crackles of the logs and the pine cones as they burned.

The same anyone would have probably noticed the small boy tearing excitedly at the wrappings of his gifts. The boy was surrounded on all sides by colourfully wrapped parcels, some of the paper with its comic snowmen and skiing Santas somewhat at odds with the tasteful decor of the room. If anyone were to think about it, the boy's dressing gown, fluffy with Daleks all over it and the word _"Exterminate"_ plastered in bright red across the shoulders was also some kind of anachronism. The room might be stamped with the indelible seal of Christmas past, but this boy was definitely embracing the present with both hands.

Anyone might have been forgiven for thinking this child was spoiled, surrounded as he was by gifts. And there were rather a large number of gifts for one child. But he was an only child. And one that was so treasured by his parents that if he had asked for the moon and stars his father would have found a way to give him them. On closer inspection the gifts, though numerous were not merely the momentary whims of the average child. There was a chemistry set, and a microscope. Several books. Several items of Giraffe patterned clothing. And a rather advanced set of technical Lego. All the while the boy was thoughtfully going through his presents he seemed to be explaining everything to a floppy toy Giraffe seated just by his knee.

No one looking through the window would have noticed the rather tall man standing by the mantelpiece. He was elegantly dressed in a patterned silk dressing gown that somebody had obviously matched to his eyes. The firelight was glinting off of the copper red in his hair, the same colour as the boy's. He was joined by another man, shorter with a battered face and a broad smile. The shorter man handed the taller a glass of champagne and slipped his arms around his waist, laughing.

And no one, not even the broken man with his limp and his scars noticed the tears running through the smile on the tall man's face.


	2. Silent Night

Nicky had fallen asleep during the Doctor Who Christmas Special. It seemed that a whole day of presents and people and bouncing had exhausted him. Wordsworth the Giraffe was clutched tightly in one hand and the other hand rested on Mycroft's Christmas pudding filled stomach. The small boy had his whole body turned into his father, peacefully seeking reassurance. Mycroft stroked a hand down his son's back causing the boy to smile in his sleep.

"As much as I would love to see the Doctor use sound waves to melt those vampire robot snowmen, I think I ought to get this little chap to his bed." Mycroft stood carefully, scooping up the small floppy body as he did so. Nicky wriggled in his father's grip and then snuggled against him without waking.

Marcus Hatch watched Mycroft carry Nicky out of the room and heard him quietly walking up the stairs. He always found a lump forming in his throat whenever he saw Mycroft and his son together. Only a very select few were ever allowed to see that. To most of the world Mycroft was referred to with the epithet "That Bastard." Or "That Cold, Heartless Bastard." More often than not Mycroft was some individual or countries judge, jury and executioner. No one ever saw the father carefully holding his son and protecting him from the world. Certainly no one ever saw Mycroft Holmes as the man who would spend a large portion of his Christmas morning lying on the floor playing Buckaroo.

The lounge door opened and Mycroft returned, minus his small charge.

"Is he okay?"

"Yes. I just took his shoes off rather than get him into his pyjamas, do you think that will be all right?" There was a quaver of uncertainty in Mycroft's voice. Marcus had noticed a tendency towards paranoia where his parenting skills we concerned.

"He'll be fine. Better than waking him up." Marcus patted the cushion next to him on the huge sofa.

"Good. Yes. I thought so too." Mycroft plonked himself down on the cushions and Marcus wrapped his arms around the tall man. Mycroft smelled of coffee and brandy and custard. It was not an inconsiderable miracle of the festive season that Marcus had managed to get Mycroft to eat a few guilt free meals. No doubt in the New Year he would be back to his ridiculous diet and weighing himself three times a day but for the time being, Marcus had hidden the scales and made Mycroft eat three lots of trifle.

"It's been a lovely day." Marcus pressed his lips into Mycroft's neck and sneaked his hand under his jumper, tiptoeing his fingers upwards in the general direction of Mycroft's right nipple.

"Yes. It has. Quite." Mycroft was doing a very good job of ignoring the Doctor's exploring hand. He reached over to a side table and began sifting through a bowl of Liquorice Allsorts.

"What are you doing?" Marcus paused.

"Looking for the coconut ones." Mycroft smiled innocently and pressed himself rather firmly against Marcus' hand.

"You are a very bad man Mr Holmes!"

"Yes but I have been a good boy all year." Mycroft did that thing with his eyebrow and Marcus found himself disinclined to argue further.

"So what would you like to do for the rest of Christmas day Mr Holmes?" Marcus slid his hand lower to Mycroft's belt letting his fingers brush the soft fabric of his jeans. Mycroft clicked the television off with the remote control, and the room was silent but for the crackling of the fire.

"All I know is that I want to spend the rest of everything with you. 'Til death us do part." Mycroft smiled, half happy, half sad.

Marcus smiled back. He of all people understood.


	3. In the Bleak Midwinter, Long, Long Ago

There was a single bright star shining up in the heavens. Shining so brightly it seemed to diminish all the other light. It looked as though you could reach out and pluck it from the black velvet sky like an enormous diamond.

Sherlock gazed up at the star. It had become the sole point of focus for him over the past hour. It was all he could see. A beacon above the gap in the rooftops.

It was cold. The frost was starting grow in sugary crystals all around him. When they found him, if they found him, the next morning, the ice would surround him like the outline of a body at a crime scene. That made him laugh. Inside. Outside he continued to stare upwards.

The alleyway smelled of urine and vomit. It was Christmas Eve, the season of goodwill to all men and drinking as much as you possibly could was upon the city. This quiet alley was many a late night revellers makeshift lavatory. Maybe not the most charming of places. But it was as good a gutter as any to die in whilst looking at the stars.

Sherlock lay still, pillowed on a spilled bin liner, jeans and t-shirt smeared with someone else's leftovers. But that was fine. It was all food for the rats. And when they did find him, if they found him, he would be another faceless corpse. Just another junkie swallowed by the city. Eaten by the scavengers that survived on London's cast offs.

He didn't feel cold. He didn't feel anything except the beautiful liquid flowing through his veins. He could see everything. He never needed to move again. He could just lay here watching the bright white light above him until the rats ate his eyeballs. And even then, he'd still be able to see that beautiful light. The light he had followed. His very own Christmas Star.

The world was shaking. He was shaking. His star had gone. No more diamond. He opened his eyes. Two cold sapphires looked down at him. He wanted the diamond back. He tried to tell them as he was lifted from the filth of the alley floor. As he was placed on the back seat of a car. You couldn't see stars through the roof of an Aston Martin. All he had left were the sapphires. He could see them in the rear view mirror. He could see daylight pinking the sky outside.

"Happy Christmas Sherlock." He heard his brother's voice say as the light from all the stars went out in Sherlock's head.


	4. Come, they told me

John Watson never thought he would ever find himself thinking it, but he really would have given good money for a salad. He smiled up at the mess orderly, who had just plonked a load of mashed potatoes on his tray and smothered the lot in gravy. Somewhere in the kitchen tent a brave and dedicated soul was cooking Christmas Pudding and Custard. John could smell it. He could smell the spices and the sweet vanilla mixed in with antiseptic and the cordite and that intangible smell of the desert. The hot, sandy, foreign smell John though he would never get used to.

His mother had sent him parcel. A small piece of home packaged in cardboard. His chocolate Santa had melted. Somehow that upset him more than anything. He got a chocolate Santa every Christmas whether he wanted one or not. Every year he could remember, the cheap chocolate wrapped in red and gold and white foil. That moment when you carefully peeled off the foil to reveal the faceless chocolate figure beneath and then the glorious hollow crunch as Santa was decapitated. It was kind of the same guilty pleasure as breaking the foil on a new jar of coffee. Only this year the heat of the desert had stolen it away from him.

There were Christmas cards in the box, from Aunties and Uncles and friends, scribbled best wishes on glittery card, all of them distant ghosts. And soap. Imperial Leather. His mum always bought Imperial Leather. Apparently it was the soap the Queen used and Mrs Watson obviously thought that an officer in her Majesty's Army should do the same. And socks. Another thing he always got for Christmas. And a jumper. His mum had knitted him a jumper. It was beige and thick and was obviously just what you wanted when it was hot enough to melt your chocolate Santa. "It gets cold at night John!" He could hear his mother's voice as she had said her goodbyes. John stroked the warm wool. It still smelled faintly of the washing powder his mum had always used. They were a Persil household. John wasn't sure if the Queen used Persil or not.

He swallowed the last of his meal, thinking that if someone had been to the trouble of cooking him a turkey dinner in the middle of the desert; the least he could do was eat it.

"Do you want custard or cream on your pudding Captain?" The mess orderly, Alex, that was it, Alex Jones, was asking. "The custard is slightly warmer than the cream but only just!" He added.

"Custard please, Alex!" John noticed that Alex always went a charming shade of red under his tan when John addressed him by his first name. Alex handed over a bowl containing what John was sure was at least a double portion of pudding, swimming in a sea of yellow.

"Watch out for the elephants!" Alex sashayed off with a smile leaving John to prod his potentially elephant infested custard with a spoon. It wasn't half bad actually. John had taken two mouthfuls before the shout went up.

"Captain Watson, we have incoming wounded."

Xx

John knew there was little to be done. He couldn't save the leg and he had to stop the bleeding. The young soldier's body armour was shredded and his face sprayed with blood. There would be internal injuries. Possibly brain damage. John knew his job was to stabilise the casualty and get him out of here. In the background John could hear the radio in the hospital office playing The Little Drummer Boy. The soldiers eyes flickered open for a moment.

"Hello? Can you tell me what your name is?" John shook him gently.

"Joseph."

"Hello Joseph I'm Captain Watson. You're in the field hospital. Can you tell me what day it is?" There was a pause.

"It's Christmas!" Joseph smiled. And closed his eyes.

Xx

John returned to the mess tent to retrieve his Christmas presents some hours later. It was getting dark and cold. The box had been neatly placed on a side table. On the top of the box, carefully wrapped in foil was a slice of Christmas cake. Alex had obviously felt sorry for John's interrupted pudding. When John returned to his bunk he pulled his sweaty t-shirt off and pulled on his jumper. His jumper that smelled of home.

"Merry Christmas." He whispered to the dark of desert.


	5. The First Noel

"Daddy! Father Christmas has been!" Mycroft had been woken sometime in the early hours of Christmas morning. Usually Mycroft would have been up already, dealing with whatever countries caused trouble at that time of day, but everyone was under instruction he was not to be disturbed. And usually Mycroft had not spent the previous evening making love in various rooms of the house, including the kitchen, the study and on the stairs.

The clock on the bedside table said it was just after six.

Nicky looked anxiously at his father's slightly bleary eyes. There may have been a bit of alcohol involved in last night as well. The green eyes met the blue, locking on for a moment.

"Daddy?" Nicky looked uncertain. Mycroft had never raised either his hand or his voice to his son. Ever. It was unnecessary with a child of Nicky's intelligence. "Oh! I should have knocked. I'm sorry Daddy." Nicky looked thoughtfully down at the duvet cover, his hands were shaking a little.

"Are you cold darling?" Mycroft put a warm arm around his son's pyjama'd shoulders.

"He's not cold. He's excited." Marcus muttered as he extracted himself from the pillow he had been sleeping under. Nicky nodded before throwing his arms around Mycroft's shoulders.

"Daddy? Where are your pyjamas?"

"Er..." The British Government seemed stuck for a comment. As was so often seen in history they were rescued by the Royal Navy.

"Daddy and I got rather warm last night and took our pyjamas off."

"Oh because you lit the fire?" Nicky observed the ashes in the grate.

"Yes. That. Exactly that! Now young man you need to take your medicine." Mycroft reached for his dressing gown, which had been abandoned on the floor by the bed.

"But it's Christmas!"

"Exactly. You don't want to be poorly at Christmas do you?" Nicky sighed. The medicine always made him feel sleepy and grumpy when he took it. And he didn't want to miss any of Christmas. Not this Christmas. The first Christmas with his Daddy. Nicky found himself being picked up and carried down to the kitchen, where he sat patiently on the work top as Mycroft sorted out the medication.

By the time Nicky had swallowed the assortment of brightly coloured tablets and Mycroft had made him a mug of hot chocolate, onto which had been sprinkled an excessive amount of marshmallows, Marcus had joined them in the lounge. The fire crackled gently in the grate, picking out the glass decorations on the tree and the brightly coloured out lines of numerous packages. Mycroft clicked on the light. The room was full of presents. Most of them were for Nicky.

"Off you go then." Marcus gave the small boy an encouraging push, but rather than diving straight in to the nearest pile, Nicky turned and thundered up the stairs leaving Marcus and Mycroft looking at each other, puzzled.

Nicky returned moments later, carrying two carefully but inexpertly wrapped packages and balancing Wordsworth on the top.

"Happy Christmas Daddy! Happy Christmas Marcus!" He handed over the packages and stood back anxiously hugging onto Wordsworth. "Mrs Hudson helped me with the scissors."

Marcus opened his heavily cello-taped parcel to reveal a Royal Navy Surgical Corps Mug.

"Thank you Nicky, that's brilliant. The last one got broken." Actually the last one had been thrown at Sherlock's head, missed, and hit the wall.

Mycroft smiled. Inside his package was a large bag of Liquorice Allsorts and a pair of brightly coloured Fimo cufflinks which read "Super-daddy."

"Do you like them? Mrs Hudson did the oven for me, but I did the writing and everything myself."

Mycroft looked down at his son.

"I can honestly say this is the best Christmas present I have ever had. And these are the nicest cufflinks I have ever owned." Nicky launched himself at his father. He didn't feel as headachy as he usually did, or as sleepy. The first Christmas with his Daddy was definitely going to be the best Christmas ever.


	6. Upon a Midnight Clear

Big Ben had just struck twelve. Mycroft looked up from his desk and the pile of paper work. He knew he should have been at home by now, duty bound as he was to make the journey every year. But they'd wait. He'd be there for dinner and his mother's caustic comments about him eating too many potatoes. He could drive down in the morning. After all what would he do if he went now but lay awake in the bed of his childhood bedroom?

Outside, on the streets of Whitehall he could hear the distinctive sounds of someone singing "God Rest ye Merry Gentleman" at the top of their inebriated voice. Mycroft presumed they were not serenading him. He bent his head back to his paper work without bothering to look at the chilly night outside with its sickly artificial yellow light and the frost beginning to sugar coat the pavements.

He could hear the cathedral bells ringing out, proclaiming from numerous midnight masses that Christ was born. There was more good natured shouting from the pavements. Didn't people have homes to go to?

At two O'clock a shy knock on the door made Mycroft look up from his work to see one of his young assistants standing in the doorway. Jonathan had only been with them for a month or so, a very quiet, able young man. He somehow reminded Mycroft a little bit of Nicholas.

Mycroft shook the thought from his head.

"Sorry. Sorry to disturb you Sir." Jonathan took a step into the room. "I brought you some tea."

"Thank you. What are you still doing here?" Mycroft looked him up and down. Jonathan blushed.

"Erm..." Of course! Mycroft recalled the boy had a tendency to stammer when flustered. Although why he should be getting flustered at this point...ah...of course...how unfortunate. Mycroft closed the file he was working on and gestured for Jonathan to enter the room.

"Can I offer you something more exciting than tea? As lovely as I'm sure your tea is." Mycroft indicated the handsome decanters of whisky and brandy on a side table. "Help yourself. And pour me a brandy. Please?"

Jonathan poured the drinks and handed over a large glass of brandy with slightly shaking hands.

"Why are you still here? No one told you that you had to stay did they?" Mycroft disapproved of pranks and hazing and everyone knew it.

"No. I was going, but then I saw you were still here. I thought you might need me... erm... something. I thought I should stay." Jonathan became very interested in the bottom of his glass of whisky.

"That's very thoughtful of you Jonathan. Are you going home to your family for the holidays?"

"Unfortunately yes." The words came out harshly. Serious, bitter, not the young man's usual quiet tone.

"You have my Sympathies. Merry Christmas Jonathan."

"Merry Christmas Mr Holmes."

The two men sat by the fire in the office in the building in Whitehall in silence. Lost in their individual thoughts but side by side never the less.


	7. I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday

"Sherlock, get away from the tree!" John hurled a cushion at Sherlock's head.

"What?"

"I know what you're doing. And it's bad luck."

"Mycroft's spent an awful lot of money this year. I can't think what's got into him. Well, other than the obvious."

"Sherlock! And for the last time stop deducing your presents."

"Don't you want to know what my big brother has got you John?"

"Stop deducing my presents as well!"

"What did I get Mycroft?"

"You got him a gift hamper."

"That was very generous of me."

"Wasn't it just. Now move away from the tree. I mean it. Honestly, for someone who says they don't like Christmas you really are acting like a big kid."

"I never said I disliked Christmas. I said I thought it was an extraordinary fuss over one day of the year. And I believe you were the one who spent most of this afternoon playing with that remote control helicopter we bought for my nephew."

"I wasn't playing with it. I was making sure it worked. Nothing worse than getting something out of the box on Christmas morning only to find it's faulty."

"Yes of course John."

The flat in Baker Street glittered with festive decor and the smells of Mrs Hudson's baking wafted up the stairs. Sherlock was doing a very bad job of pretending he wasn't excited by it all. The same way he had feigned utter disdain for the entire period of time they had spent in the toy shop, where every toy had been pronounced as unsuitable or not good enough for the Only Nephew of the World's Only Consulting Detective. They had settled on an advanced set of electronics experiments, a backwards jigsaw puzzle so fiendish John had to read the instructions on the box twice and an expander pack of chemicals for the Chemistry set that Mycroft had already purchased. The helicopter had been John's idea, as had a stocking filled with novelties including bouncing eyeballs, a sticky octopus that walked down walls, a quantity of Daleks and a whoopee cushion. Sherlock had rolled his eyes contemptuously. But despite his disapproval, Sherlock had continued adding items to the basket.

"I suppose if Young Nicholas gets bored of them Mycroft's boy toy can play with them." Sherlock was still not quite okay with his brother's partner. Which was a shame as Marcus was very good for the older Holmes boy. Very good indeed.

Sherlock reluctantly moved away from the tree, giving one squashy parcel a last poke as he did so.

"I wonder if Young Nicholas is excited?" He was always Young Nicholas to Sherlock and somewhere in that confusing, bewilderingly filled place that was Sherlock's head John supposed there must be a tiny box marked Sentiment, one that made him still distinguish between Nicky and the other Nicholas.

"I bet he is." John was just putting the finishing touches to the last of the presents he had been wrapping.

"I never used to get excited." Sherlock picked up one of the newly wrapped gifts and gave it a little shake.

"That does not surprise me."

"I suppose you were one of those children who left carrots out for the reindeer?"

"Of course. You need a lot of energy if you are going to fly all the way around the world in one night." Sherlock gave John a pitying look. John ignored him and clicked on his MP3 Player, where the plutonium powered lungs of Noddy Holder proclaimed it was Christmas.

"And now I have to listen to...to this." Sherlock agitated another of the presents that were destined for Nicky.

"Yes you do. Because it's Christmas. And I thought we could watch my collection of Doctor Who Christmas Specials and have some mulled wine and you can sit quietly and say nothing. Think of it as a gift. For me."

"Bah Humbug!" Sherlock plonked himself down on the sofa and accepted the mug from John.

"God bless us, every one." John chinked his mug against Sherlock's. Sometimes he was quite glad it wasn't Christmas every day.


	8. When A Child is Born

Mycroft had been in a meeting with the Prime Minister and Her Majesty when his phone had beeped. He apologised profusely for the interruption and gave the screen a cursory glance. Typically his face gave away nothing. The meeting continued. Her Majesty would be flying to Balmoral in an hour for the Christmas Holidays and the Prime Minister would be leaving for Chequers after Questions. Mycroft bowed deeply to Her Majesty at the end of the meeting and was just about to take his leave of her but she continued to hold on to his hand.

"Mr Holmes, duty is very important."

"Yes Your Majesty." Mycroft became aware of a Corgi rubbing against his trouser leg sympathetically.

"But not quite as important as family. One should do everything One can for One's family."

"Yes Ma'am."

"Merry Christmas, Lord Sedgefield."

"Merry Christmas Ma'am." Mycroft left, wondering just how she knew.

He arrived at the hospital to be greeted by Anthea's tired and worried face. He felt his guts churning, the tea and fruitcake from the palace threatening to make a reappearance. An equally worried Doctor was standing next to her.

"Well?"

"I'm afraid the news isn't good Sir. The baby's heart isn't beating properly. We knew there would be complications because of how premature the birth was. The baby is struggling to breathe and it's only a matter of time before organ failure."

"I see." They were led down corridors decorated with tinsel and balloons and cheerful snowmen to a small room. There was no decoration there. Just an incubator and a bewildering amount of machinery. And in the incubator the tiniest scrap of life. Angry pink skin, translucent and showing every vein, tiny thin limbs spread-eagled, the chest covered completely by monitor cables rising and falling far too quickly. And from under the small blue woolly hat a wisp of red hair. A nurse in soft shoes opened the incubator and lifted one of the tiny arms in order to inject something and in spite of the wires and oxygen lines encumbering him, the baby forcibly pulled his arm away from her and cried, voicing his displeasure.

"I'm sorry. He's just too small. We can't do anything." The Doctor was reeling off a list of reasons why the baby would die. The boy turned his head and for a brief moment the huge eyes opened and looked directly at Mycroft. The eyes were green. It was one of those moments that defines a life. The moment when the sum of all of Mycroft's fears about whether he would be a good father or whether he would be like his father were added together. The moment when the heart he thought had died and was buried, fluttered and beat once more. Mycroft reached out his hand. The boy would have fitted into his palm, he was so small. One tiny fist bumped against Mycroft's finger.

"How long?"

"A few hours. The baby's heart won't last much longer. I'm sorry."

"A few hours are all I need." Mycroft's blue eyes darkened. "And his name is Nicholas."

And a few hours was all it took for a surgical team from Geneva to be flown in with the latest equipment. And whilst Mycroft knew it was Christmas and he apologised for interrupting their holidays he also knew that every last one of them owed him. For research grants, for permission to carry out procedures, for access to test subjects. Every last one of them existed on his say so. Every last one of them was terrified of him. There was a bit of quiet complaining and comparing Mycroft to Scrooge of course, but they all got home in time to spend Christmas with their families. They would all find a little something extra in their New Year bank balances.

And none of them would ever know or understand why the most powerful man in the world should be interested in saving that one child. It didn't matter to them.

"You should go and get some rest." Anthea looked up at Mycroft.

"I don't like to leave him." In the incubator Nicholas was sleeping, a large white bandage covering most of his body.

"I'll stay with him."

Anthea gratefully left to get a shower and some clean clothes. Mycroft had already sent word to the Manor that he would not be attending Christmas dinner as something of national importance had come up. Very carefully he lifted the side of the incubator and slipped Wordsworth inside. The Giraffe was considerably bigger than the boy, but that didn't stop the sleeping child from hugging one of Wordsworth's legs tightly.

"Are you all right honey? Can I get you anything?" The nurse's name badge read Mary.

"No, thank you."

"I've just come to check little Nicky's temperature, and his nappy."

"I'll wait outside." Mycroft made to stand.

"It's all right honey. Your daddy can stay, can't he Nicky?" She addressed the sleeping child.

"How did you know...?"

"I've been doing this a few years now." She laughed. "And besides he's got your eyebrows. Don't worry honey, it will be our little secret. Although everyone's talking about our Christmas Miracle here!" She gave Nicky a gently stroke with her finger.

"Thank you. "

"I never seen anyone do what you did though."

"Well one has to do everything one can for one's family."

"Yes. My son's out in Afghanistan at the moment. It's just him and me now, my Husband died eight months ago. "

"I'm sorry."

Mary the nurse left the room and Mycroft looked thoughtfully down at his son before pulling out his phone.

"Hello? This is Mycroft Holmes. Please get me the Ministry of Defence."

Xx

It was Christmas morning and Mycroft walked down the corridors of the children's wing past wards of excited children, for a moment their illnesses forgotten as they opened presents with their families. Bedsteads were covered in tinsel and plastic holly hung from drips and bottles of blood. Mycroft smiled as he walked past the nurses' station. Mary the Nurse was just filling in a chart.

"Mum?" She looked up at the tall young man in desert combat gear stood in front of the desk.

"Adam? How did you get here?"

"I don't know. Apparently someone really high up in the MOD knew Dad and fixed it all. There was a letter from the Queen! They sent a special plane and everything."

"But your father was a taxi driver?" Adam shrugged and his mother hugged him tightly. "Oh I don't care. It's a miracle!"

Mycroft walked past them catching Mary's eye.

"Happy Christmas Mary!" And he was gone.


	9. Tis the Season

Elizabeth looked through the brightly coloured blur of revelry. Twinkling coloured lights and glitter and sequins all melting together throughout the room. A toffee carnival.

The young man had been staring at her for a while she supposed. Staring at her with bright green eyes that seemed to diminish all the other colour in the room. He was cute, his gingery hair cut short and spiked up with gel, his suit was expensive but not too formal and just visible where his trousers leg had ridden up a little was a sock patterned like a Giraffe. He caught Elizabeth looking at him and smiled. But it was a sad smile as if he didn't expect her to smile back. One of his friends touched his shoulder and said something to him and he turned away. Somehow he seemed familiar.

"That's Nicholas Holmes!" One of her friends quietly shouted in her ear.

"Who is?"

"The cute one you've just been staring at. He's down with Mark's lot from Cambridge. He's Sherlock Holmes' nephew."

"Oh." That was all she could say. What else was there to say? Nicholas Holmes had disappeared into the crowd. Gone.

A while later and Elizabeth was fast becoming bored with the party. A pre-Christmas bout of flu meant she was still taking medication that didn't mix well with alcohol. Parties were all well and good if you weren't the only sober person left in the building.

"Sorry!" A tall lad with blond hair spluttered as he accidentally poured half a pint of Eggnog down the front of her dress.

"It's fine." Elizabeth fished in her purse for some tissues to mop up the mess. And a red handkerchief was placed into her hands. She looked up to find herself looking right into the emerald eyes of Nicholas Holmes. His eyes were very beautiful, and bright, but behind them she somehow sensed he was sad.

"Thank you." She smiled at him. He was perhaps an inch taller than her. Certainly not as tall as his famous uncle. He blushed and turned away. "You're Nicholas aren't you? Mycroft's son."

"I'm sorry. Have we met before?" Nicholas looked around him. In a corner of the room a large man trying to blend in with wallpaper looked over to them.

"You won't remember. I'm Lizzie LeStrade. Greg LeStrade's daughter."

"Superintendant LeStrade?"

"Yes." Lizzie rummage in her purse, her ruined dress forgotten. She pulled a small square of fuzzy red fabric from the small bag. "Once upon a time you gave me your blanket. I never did say thank you."

Nicky looked up, just above their heads, a large bunch of Mistletoe was dangling hopefully. He looked at her and smiled. And his smile wasn't sad any more.


	10. Stop the Calvalry

Flight Lieutenant Charles Denborough had wanted to join Her Majesty's Armed Forces for as long as he could remember. Since he had first seen the pictures of his Uncle John smiling with a desert in the background. Everyone had tried to persuade him not to join. They had offered him alternative careers and safe options. Everyone except Nicky. Because Nicky knew. He alone understood. Being kept safe and alive was no good at all if it stopped you from living.

All Nicky had said and it was a strange thing to say really, as he had handed Charlie a small going away gift, was: "There is nowhere you can go I can't find you. Trust the Aardvark."

Xx

Gray's Wine Emporium was busy. Very busy. Its seemed the world and its discerning dog had descended upon them to stock up for the festive season.

"Stephen?" Stephanie poked her Santa-hatted head and several piercings around the door of the stockroom. Stephen Gray looked up from his Champagne inventory. "Jonathan's on the 'phone. He says it's urgent."

Stephanie always thought Stephen moved far too quickly and silently for someone that size. Stephen listened, carefully for a few seconds saying a simple "Yes, I understand." Before putting the 'phone down. When he turned, all the colour was gone from his face.

"Stephen? What is it?"

"It's Charlie. His plane has been shot down."

"Is he all right?"

"They don't know." Stephen's hands were shaking. Stephanie removed her hat.

Xx

A pair of unblinking black eyes watched from the other side of the room. Seeing everything and making no comment as the scene unfolded.

Mycroft's face was grave as he spoke.

"How can we not know where he is?" The Air vice Marshall stammered something about covert missions. Mycroft's reply was short. Four letters short to be exact.

"Lieutenant Denborough understands the importance of keeping radio silence. He was flying over enemy territory when we lost him."

Lost. Charlie was lost. The chubby little boy who had spent most of his summers running around Mycroft's garden and Christmas sneaking mince pies from the pantry was lost.

"I want his last known position. And then I'm ordering the Special Air Service in."

"But without knowing where he is..."

"Mycroft?" Jonathan Denborough spoke for the first time. Carefully. Picking out his words as though he was afraid they would trip him up. "We can't risk the lives of anyone else. Charlie wouldn't want that."

Mycroft smacked his fist into the desk. He knew that as well.

Xx

Charlie had the uncomfortable feeling that the thing that smelled like Barbecued Poodle was actually him. His ejector seat had fired all right, but the charge hadn't quite blown away the cockpit cover in time and he'd smacked his shoulder on it on the way out of the burning aircraft. He had managed to undo the harness and slide out of the seat to the gritty floor. His whole body hurt. He was sure his shoulder was broken. He reached down to the first aid kit contained in the knee pouch of his flight suit, hoping to find the morphine.

It was then that he caught sight of his watch. The date said the twenty-fourth. Of course. Christmas Eve. There had been a strand of tinsel on the nose cone of his plane that morning. Charlie forgot about the morphine. Reaching instead to his breast pocket and smiling as his fingers closed around what was in there. Nicky's going away present. He squeezed it gently. Alone in a desert on Christmas Eve. Charlie thought he could really do with a Herald Angel or a Star right about then.

It had started to get dark.

Xx

Nicky took a deep breath on his inhaler as his father explained the situation. Stephen Gray was looking out of the window of Jonathan's Whitehall office, incongruous in his casual shirt, hugging Artie, Charlie's Aardvark, who resided on the bookshelf when Charlie was away.

"That's the situation. He's Missing in Action. Until we know exactly where he is we can't risk sending a team to get him. " Mycroft sat down, shaking his head.

"That is my Son, Mycroft!" Stephen turned and shouted.

"They are all somebody's Son!" Mycroft shouted back.

"It's fine. I'll find him." Nicky said it quietly as he seated himself at the desk and began tapping away on the computer. "The Aardvark won't let us down." Everyone looked from Nicky to Artie and then back at Nicky as though he'd gone mad.

"Nicholas, what are you talking about?"

"Advanced Recovery Data Visualisation Automated Remote Chip. ARDVARC. It's just something I've been working on. It's designed so we can activate it from anywhere and then you can link via satellite to where the signal is. I got bored one day!" He paused. "Dad, I've just hacked into NASA, is that okay?"

Mycroft nodded weakly, wondering how the same genes that made him eat biscuits and his brother shoot walls to stave off boredom had conspired to produce this moment of brilliance.

"How does Charlie have one of these?" Jonathan looked over Nicky shoulder.

"I gave him one. Sort of a going away present really. I'm activating it now."

"What if he hasn't got it with him? "

"He will." There followed a tense thirty seconds as Nicky bounced signals off satellites. "Found you!" And there on the computer screen, shining like a brilliant star in the middle of nowhere was the satellite image pinpointing Charlie's exact location. Mycroft was already reading co-ordinates to someone on the other end of the phone.

Xx

Charlie couldn't move. He was helpless. Somehow his legs seemed not to want to play with the rest of him. He was stuck. Sure he could drag himself a little way but he wasn't going to get far. He felt sick and dizzy and thirsty. They must know he was missing by now. They would have told his Dads. And that would ruin everyone's Christmas. Christmas. He remembered running up and down Uncle Mycroft's stairs and sliding along the corridors of the large house in bare feet. He remembered playing hide and seek with Nicky. Nicky was good at hide and seek. It didn't seem to matter where Charlie hid, Nicky always found him.

There was a light up in the sky. Just a small one. A star to light the way. The way home. Charlie wanted to go home. He squeezed the small Aardvark key ring Nicky had given him as a going away gift, closed his eyes and made a wish.

Xx

A pair of black beady eyes looked at Charlie curiously from the table at the side of the bed. The linen was crisp and clean and somewhere there was the smell of cinnamon and spice from freshly baked mince pies. For a few moments he thought he must be dreaming and he would open his eyes for real and still be in the cooling desert. He reached out, his fingers closing on Artie's soft nose. Everything hurt. But he was home.


End file.
